On March 4, 1805, Thomas Jefferson was for the second time inaugurated President of the United States. Standing before a shivering crowd of spectators, with a chill breeze off the icy Potomac whipping at his plain coat, he made his inaugural speech—“Peace is smoothing our path at home and abroad.”
On that same day, 4,000 miles to the eastward, a little group of Americans stood sweltering in the blazing heat of an African desert, signing a treaty committing the United States to an aggressive war.
For the truth of the matter was that the peace of which the President spoke existed only in the facile adaptability of political statement, and our path was far from smooth. The depredations and atrocities of the Barbary pirates had driven even the peace-loving Mr. Jefferson to strenuous methods. “Tribute or war is the usual alternative of these Barbary pirates. Why not build a navy and decide on war? We cannot begin in a better cause or against a better foe.” So an American naval force had been sent to the Mediterranean, and under the leadership of the able Commodore Preble had met with initial success. Then disaster had struck, when the Philadelphia had been captured and her crew imprisoned by the Bashaw of Tripoli. The daring feat of Decatur in blowing up the Philadelphia had removed that dangerous weapon from the enemy, but in the persons of the officers and men in his dungeons the Bashaw still possessed a powerful threat. Negotiations for the ransom of the prisoners had been initiated, but the exorbitant price demanded soon brought them to a halt, and Preble clearly perceived that force was the only instrument left to him. He had only a small force and the defenses of Tripoli were strong, so it began to look as though the situation had reached a stalemate.
At that point there came to the baffled Commodore one of the most fascinating characters in American history, a New England Yankee by the name of William Eaton. Eaton had served as a soldier in the Continental Army under Washington, had subsequently dabbled in politics, and had been rewarded with the consular post at Algiers. From the beginning his relations with the Bey had been poor. The ruler of Algiers had succeeded to his throne by a devious process of murder, bribery, torture, and treachery, which in itself was nothing unusual for an oriental potentate, but small recommendation to a Puritan from Massachusetts. The first meeting was inauspicious:
... a huge, shaggy beast, sitting on his rump upon a low bench, with his hind legs gathered up like a tailor or a bear, who extended his fore paw as if to receive something to eat. “Kiss the Bey’s hand!” our guide exclaimed. The animal seemed at that moment to be in a harmless mood; he grinned several times, but made very little noise.
This original impression was amplified by later events. In accordance with established custom, the Bey demanded from time to time, on birthdays, holidays, and such occasions, “presents” from the diplomatic representatives of the various nations. These gifts were in addition to the formally stipulated tributes paid annually, and often came to large sums. The Europeans understood, and were able to make their governments understand, the necessity for such bonuses, but the Yankee thrift of Eaton could not comprehend such measures, nor could he make Congress, inflexibly contemptuous of foreign customs, comprehend. Add to this the rapacity of the Bey’s right-hand man, an icy-eyed renegade who demanded and got his preliminary cut on all transactions, and it is readily apparent why diplomatic relations grew progressively cooler. Eventually Eaton was given none too polite indications that his departure would be not only welcome but of definite benefit to his health. He left Algiers in company with a suave physician of Hungarian nationality, one Dr. Mandreci, with whom he formed a lasting friendship. Eaton had been dismissed for want of congeniality toward the Bey, Mandreci for excess of congeniality toward the Bey’s favorite wife.
This was the man who came to Preble; a tall fellow, well built, somewhat given to extravagant dress and grandiloquent gestures, but enthusiastic, forceful, and intelligent. Briefly he outlined a plan. Tripoli was strongly fortified against attack from the sea and a frontal assault from that direction would be both costly and hazardous. Why not, then, make a coordinated attack from both sea and land? Excellent, answered Preble, but pointed out that he had no equipment and no men to spare for a landing force. Never mind, said Eaton, just give him some money and a promise of co-operation and he would raise an army. More than that, he would provide a popular cause to rally the discontented elements of the Tripolitan populace and gain support for the Americans. Hamet Karamanli, the brother of the Bashaw, had escaped over the border two steps ahead of the Bashaw’s fraternal eagerness to send him to the tender arms of the Mohammedan heaven’s forty thousand houris. He was now in exile in Malta and would be more than glad to ally himself with the Americans and allow them to put him back on his throne. With a friendly and grateful Bashaw in Tripoli, America would have a virtual protectorate, the days of tribute would be over, and a future of unbounded possibilities would be open to American commercial enterprise. The plan was obviously sound, there was little to be lost and much to be gained, so Preble gave his consent. He also gave what money he could spare from the squadron funds and Lieutenant O’Bannon of the Marines, with six men and a sergeant.
As the new year of 1805 opened, Eaton landed in Egypt, with an idea, $10,000, and eight marines. The land of the Pharaohs was then under the aegis of France, after Napoleon’s triumph at the Battle of the Pyramids, and the Americans faced difficulties and dangers because of popular suspicion that they were English spies. They had to travel far up the Nile to find the governor and it was only by adroit management and judicious bribery that they obtained his permission to travel in the territory. The native authorities were cleverly impressed by Eaton’s imperious flaunting of his consular commission and his bold announcement that it contained his credentials as the only son of the Emperor of America. How the democratic Jefferson would have raged at this abrupt transformation of his elective office into imperial hierarchy! Thus by hook and by crook Eaton bought his supplies, purchased his arms, and raised his army, until at last he was ready.
So we find them, on this fourth day of March, with the scene set at Burj el Arab, an ancient Roman fort some miles west of Cairo. It loomed up in the arid waste, 300 feet square, with stone walls 30 feet high and 5 feet thick, and in the shade of this massive monument to the grandeur of a vanished empire, the representatives of a young nation started on the old, old path of imperial conquest. Eaton sat at a rickety camp table, looking across at Hamet Karamanli, a thin, pallid young man with dull eyes and a pimply complexion caused by his inordinate fondness for Turkish sweetmeats. The American, now “General” Eaton, read the articles of the treaty he had drawn up, articulating the pompous paragraphs of diplomatic phraseology with obvious satisfaction. The gist of the agreement was that the American forces promised to place Hamet on the throne of Tripoli, and in return he promised to free all American prisoners without ransom, sign a treaty of perpetual amity and friendship, and grant certain privileges of trade (a sort of most-favored-nation clause). Eaton finished his reading, signed with a flourish, and passed the document to Hamet, who placed his seal upon it. Then the two allies turned to review their troops.
The American flag has certainly never flown over so strange an army. Front and center, as a color guard, stood the tiny group of U. S. Marines, Lieutenant O’Bannon spick and span as though his squad were a regiment. Near them, in solitary splendor, stood two late arrivals, Midshipmen Paoli and Peck, very young and very self-conscious. A single fieldpiece, the pride of the entire army, was manned by 25 Greeks, Captain Luca Ulovic in command. Thirty-eight more Greeks, under Lieutenant Constantine, formed a company of infantry. Sixty Bedouins in flowing white robes and blue veils sat their horses with the silent contempt of cavalry the world over, rigid under the hawk-like glance of their leader, the Sheik Mohammed el Tayeb. Behind these appeared the uneven ranks of the native infantry, 400 Arabs, Egyptians, Turks, and men of no nationality, under the command of the Turkish Janissary, Selim Comb. And lastly, far off to one side, the milling mass of 200 camels made a brown lake on the white sand.
Around Hamet and Eaton themselves was grouped the staff, even more motley than the Army. The elegant Dr. Mandreci, Hungarian, was Surgeon General. The Chevalier de Aries, French, was Chief of Staff. Lieutenant Connant was Irish, Lieutenants Percival and Richard Farquhar were English, Lieutenant Rocco was Italian, and Lieutenant Leitensdorfer was, for the moment, Swiss. All of these men were soldiers of fortune, all of them had pasts of complexity and consciences of proved elasticity, all of them were characters to catch and hold our interest. Let us examine just one of them, this fellow named Leitensdorfer, and see exactly who he was.
He was born Gervasi Santuari near Trieste in 1772, and entered the Austrian Army at seventeen. He was at Belgrade in 1789-90 and fought at the siege of Mantua. When Napoleon’s armies swept to success, he diplomatically transferred his allegiance and joined the French as Carlos Hossondo. In France he prospered for a while and rose to the rank of Captain. The French, probably with justification, began to suspect him of treachery, so he fled to Switzerland, where he became Eugene Leitensdorfer and went to work for a jeweler. With a sizable portion of his employer’s stock in trade, he departed for Egypt, there swapped his jewels for a coffee house, traded that for a theater, and married a Copt woman. Just before the Battle of the Nile he re-entered the French service, in the Navy, and fought against Nelson. Having for once chosen the wrong side, he found it expedient to depart for Messina, where he entered the Capuchin monastery as Father Anselmo. The seclusion turning out to be dull, we next find him in Constantinople, an officer in the Turkish army engaged in the campaign against the Mamelukes. After that he became the Dervish Murad Aga, a most holy healer of the sick and the very fortunate friend of the Pasha of Trebizone, whom he somehow cured of a painful ailment. As a dervish he traveled over the Moslem world, visiting the Suez, Jeddah, and even the inviolate, holy shrine of Mecca. The lure of the pound note persuaded him to act as interpreter for a wealthy English explorer in Nubia and Abyssinia, and after returning from that trip he set up as a military engineer in Cairo, where Eaton found him.
This was the army of General Eaton, a confusing, conglomerate mass held together only, as Calhoun phrased it, “by the cohesive power of public plunder.” With this rabble of 600 doubtful soldiers he was setting out to march across a thousand miles of burning desert and conquer a power to whom the great nations of Europe had paid tribute for generations. It was mad, but it was also magnificent.
They set out on March 5, and went along fairly well for a few days. Then on the 9th an incident occurred that gave rise to numerous misgivings. A party of Greeks galloped into camp to offer their services, and in jubilation and high spirits fired a fusillade of greeting. The native troops, hearing the shots, concluded that the army had been attacked by raiders and grabbed their arms, not to repel the enemy, but to kill the whites and join the attackers! It cost the lives of two Greeks before the misunderstanding was straightened out, and it did little to help the morale of the Europeans.
Now the going began to get rough. With typical native thoughtlessness, the troops had feasted on the stores provided them to such an extent that what was intended to last for the whole trip was almost exhausted before the first hundred miles were past. Eaton promptly placed what stores were left under guard, to establish a strict system of rationing. At the first succeeding meal he had a mutiny on his hands. The troops looked disdainfully at the meager portions doled out to them and refused to move further without more food. The General argued with them, pleaded with them, and even attempted to bribe them. While the discussion was going on O’Bannon, who had grasped the situation immediately, rounded up the Greeks and his marines and placed them in ranks. When all was ready he walked up to Eaton and whispered in his ear. The General’s face lighted up, and he abruptly asked the native spokesmen what they intended to do if he refused more food. Return home, was the answer. “I think,” said Eaton, “you will find the road back to Egypt a bit rough.” The natives turned and found themselves staring straight into the face of the fieldpiece, with a steady line of leveled muskets and fixed bayonets backing it up. Being sensible men, they decided to call the whole thing off. O’Bannon’s initiative and quick thinking had averted disaster.
On over the sear waste, day after day of agony, sore feet and empty stomachs, aching eyes and parched throats, until at Marsa Matrub trouble struck again. The leader of the camel caravan, a greasy character known in the records only as “Big Belly,” came to the General and blandly announced that the camels had come as far as $11 apiece would bring them. It seemed that there was a fixed mileage rate on camels and the union rules were inflexible. Of course, he had failed to mention this little detail when the original agreement had been made, but Allah made men forgetful and who could question the divine wisdom of Allah? Eaton exploded, but it did him little good. He couldn’t go on without his only means of transporting supplies and ammunition and he couldn’t use force. This oriental union leader had the upper hand, and it was play ball with the union or walk. All of the original funds were gone, so the hat was passed among the officers and $673 collected. After tedious computation “Big Belly” decided this was enough for exactly 160 camels and proceeded to send 40 of them back to Egypt.
At Bir Dobh a bit of good luck occurred, when 80 Bedouin horsemen of the tribe of Alud Ala joined the expedition. Of course, the reinforcement was welcome, but they brought no provisions and that meant 80 more mouths to feed out of the dwindling stores.
At dawn on April 3 the cavalry made a raid on Sidi Barrani, and a body of very surprised soldiers, who had no idea an enemy was within a thousand miles, took to their heels in short order. One hundred and thirty-five years later that same frontier post was to witness a similar scene on a larger scale, but as the frightened followers of the Bashaw fled they had little idea their speed record would be shattered by the minions of a later-day pirate. Nor did Eaton know he was playing Wavell to the Bashaw’s II Duce. He was merely very pleased at his bloodless victory.
As the English were to do later, the Americans pressed on. But hunger was a real force now, stronger than the enemy and ever present. On the 8th Hamet, who had made the journey reclining at his ease in a canopied palanquin, sent word to Eaton that he was ill. The General found his conquering monarch stretched out in his tent, munching one of the inevitable sweetmeats, with a pronounced pout on his weak face. It appeared, from the prince’s complaints, that this expedition wasn’t at all what he had expected. Consequently he, Hamet, was going to call the whole shooting match off and go back to Malta and that cool harem he was a fool to have ever left. He had his say, then Eaton had his. In his memoirs the General skips lightly over his own part of the argument, but, reading between the lines, it is to be suspected that he painted a very vivid picture of just what sort of reward deserters would receive and gave that bit of reluctant royalty a verbal lashing that had his cold feet burning hot in no time. At any rate, Hamet, who probably would not have relished being stuffed in the mouth of the Greek fieldpiece and scattered over the surrounding landscape, consented to continue to grace the army with his presence.
On again, with men falling out of ranks from sheer weakness, with the camels so thin they looked like moth-eaten bags of bones, and with Eaton always present. He was everywhere, that man. Now giving a word of encouragement to a worn-out young Greek, now blistering the bald pate of a rotund Turk with a blast of derisive profanity, giving a hand on the gun traces here, seeing to the disposition of the scouts there. He wasn’t just the general in command of that army, he was the sinew and the spirit and the very soul of it, and he drove it on towards its goal with relentless fury.
On April 15 the last scraps of food were gone, and men were looking contemplatively at the camels, fingering their knives. In the forenoon they reached the ridge of Ain el Gazzalo, and a few miles farther on they found themselves looking down on the Gulf of Bomba. On its glistening surface two tiny dots of white stood out, and after a look through his glasses, O’Bannon turned to the General and reported, “The Argus and the Hornet, sir.” The word spread, there was a cheer, or rather a hoarse, hungry growl, and the mob spilled down the slope and raced towards Tobruk. No enemy forces were at Tobruk, and it is fortunate for them that they weren’t, for that hungry army would have tom ten times its number to pieces for a loaf of bread.
There was a feast at Tobruk, on the stores donated by the American ships, and great rejoicing. Eaton’s servant, Lewis, provided cause for merriment by taking as his wife a native girl, in a ceremony of barbaric splendor. Another character, Lewis; let the General describe him in his own words:
A proper scamp, born in Gibraltar, is free of London, a convict in Ireland, a burgomaster in Holland, was circumcised in Barbary, was a spy for the Devil at the feast of Pentecost, has the gift of tongues, has traveled in Europe, and will undoubtedly be hung in America, for I intend to take him there.
They stayed a few days at Tobruk to recuperate, then moved on, with the reinforcement of food, water, and Midshipmen Eli Danielson and George Mann, all donated by Captain Hull. Always, it seems, a naval commander has been able to spare a midshipman or a marine for any project at hand. The march was now easier, and by the 25th the army was outside Dema. They had marched 520 miles in 50 days, on foot across an alien and hostile desert, and now they were at their first major objective, the second city of the kingdom.
Dema is located on the Mediterranean, and is overlooked by a slight eminence, outside the walls. This knoll was obviously the spot for artillery and it was not overlooked by Eaton, who knew his business and placed his solitary cannon there the very first thing. Then he sent O’Bannon under a flag of truce with a message for the Governor.
To His Excellency the Governor of Derna—
Sir:
I want no territory. With me is advancing the legitimate sovereign of your country. Give us passage through your city and for the supplies which we shall need you shall receive fair compensation.
No difference of religion induces us to shed the blood of harmless men who think little and do nothing. If you are a man of liberal mind you will not balance on the proposition I offer. Hamet Bashaw pledges himself to me that you shall be established in your government. I shall see you tomorrow in a way of your choice.
To which the Governor answered, with admirable brevity, “My head or yours.”
Eaton had it thus neatly put up to him, fight or back down. He, however, was one General who could fight as well as he could write high-flown notes, and he was equal to the situation. The fieldpiece commenced firing immediately but, though it proved a source of annoyance, it was by no means decisive. At the same time an attack was made on a sector of the town which extended outside the walls and that suburb was taken. Emissaries were then sent into the town secretly to spread the word about the coming of Hamet and to attempt to rouse the populace to support. This did not wholly succeed, but it did have the effect of creating dissension and keeping the bulk of the population inertly neutral. This deprived the Governor of their aid, with which he would have been overwhelmingly strong.
The Nautilus, Argus, and Hornet were by now lying off Derna and their batteries were available to some extent as artillery support. With their fire as a preliminary barrage, a full-scale assault was made on the town. At the first volley the native infantry did an about face and retired to the rear, but the remainder carried on, with the marines in the fore and the Greeks storming along in their wake. The Governor’s cannon, incredibly ancient, burst wide open on the first attempt to fire them and caused great dismay among the defenders, and before they had recovered from their surprise the Americans were at the walls. O’Bannon, carrying the colors, was the first man over, and with his squad he held fast until the Greeks could come up in force. Now the native slackers, seeing things going their way, rushed up to get in on the glory, and before the sun had set the American flag was flying over Fort Ras el Matariz. General Eaton did not give any figures on his casualties, except to mention that three of his invaluable marines had died in the storming of the walls.
With the only fort in the hands of the Americans, his people showing signs of enthusiasm for Hamet, and no prospects of immediate help from Tripoli, the Governor felt himself forced to surrender the city.
The capture of Dema was an irreparable blow to the Bashaw. It meant the loss of half of his territory, of his second city, of his only open seaport (Tripoli was blockaded by the naval squadron) and, most important, loss of face. The position of oriental rulers is precarious at best, and Yusuf Karamanli had given many a man cause to hate him. With the first intimations of disaster, his courtiers and sycophants began considering how they could expeditiously go over to the winning side, and there were few indeed he could count on for loyalty. The position of the United States was conversely excellent. We had only to sit tight and wait for a short while and the worm-eaten throne of the Bashaw would crumble under his plump posterior. Thus all was perfect, until into the picture there came a man by the name of Tobias Lear. Mr. Lear was a consular official appointed by the President. He had some nebulous authority which his own ego magnified to awesome proportions, and he promptly proceeded to push Barron, Eaton, and all others present into the position of impotent subordinates. He saw the Bashaw as a genial old gentleman who desired only peace and a fair profit on piracy, and he could not understand the necessity for fighting when it was possible to negotiate. Commodore Barron, who had replaced the forceful Preble, was a sick man and a weak man, and he let this political apostle persuade him to surrender to the demands of the Bashaw. On June 11a treaty of peace was signed, payment of the ransom was made, and Usuf Karamanli, amid great rejoicing, announced to his people that the mountain had come to Mohammed.
In a long and sad list of poor treaties, this one stands out. By it we betrayed a trust, abandoned our friends, and rewarded our enemies. By it we paid the bribes we had gone to war to prevent paying, after we had won our war. And by it we wiped out all the gains that blood, money, and gallant self-sacrifice had made for us. All this when we were in a position to dictate any terms we chose.
In Derna the news of the treaty came like the peal of the trumpet of doom. Sadly O’Bannon hauled down the flag he had so proudly and gallantly raised and cast a wondering glance at the graves of his three marines who had died for this sorry ending. Furiously Eaton led his staff down to the boats of the Hornet and away from the glory he had promised them. Bewilderedly Hamet Karamanli turned his face to the eastward and sought in his tortured mind some explanation for this treachery. And despairingly the people of Derna watched the departure of those who had promised them all and given them nothing, and sought their mosques to prepare their souls for death. O’Bannon went back to the routine of duty, Eaton to the scorn and base ingratitude of his government, Hamet to an ignominious death by poisoning, and the people of Derna to heaven or hell, each according to his just deserts, for the Bashaw’s troops cut their throats, man, woman, and child.
What significance is there in this story of a lost cause? There is an element of interest in the fact that it was the only time the American flag has flown over the continent of Africa. There is room for conjecture as to what might have happened had the United States kept this foothold in the Mediterranean. There is even the similarity between the march of Eaton and the campaign of Wavell against the Italians. But these are only trivial. The real meaning lies in the simple fact that it is a tale of men—a tale of Eaton and O’Bannon, four midshipmen and seven marines. Here were thirteen Americans, marching and fighting, starving and thirsting, living and dying, carving a path through a wilderness and carrying a flag to victory. Here were the Army, the Navy, and the Marine Corps, working together for a greater service and leaving their names as our common heritage. “They had a job to do and they did it.” What finer epitaph could they have than that? Neither the ingratitude of government, nor the stupidity of politicians, nor the neglect of history can take that away from them. In their lives and in their story is the strength of America; by men like these she was made a great nation, by men like these she will maintain that greatness.